April 19th poems
Today’s prompt will require that you use a little memory, but not your own; because for today’s prompt you need to write a poem about a moment (or moments) you can’t remember yourself that are about yourself. I think everyone has these stories about when you were a child, or when you were drunk, or when you were talking in your sleep, or when you were in a coma (hopefully not too many fall into this category actually).
If you need to jog your memory of things you can’t personally remember, call up a friend or relative. I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to recount those embarrassing moments for you.
For instance, we have a family reunion every year on Labor Day weekend up in northwest Indiana for my mom’s side of the family. There are usually more than 100 family members in attendance, and they ALL know the “tree story” about when I was three years old. You see, I was at one of my aunt’s houses and had to use the restroom, but they were all full. So my grandparents told me to go outside and relieve myself behind the tree. So my three-year-old self marched out there and rounded the tree one full circle and shouted back at the house, “Where’s the ‘behind’ of this tree?”
Ah, sweet memories. I don’t remember it personally, but every year on Labor Day weekend, 100+ people are ready to remind me.
Now
I didn’t sleep through the night,
they say, until I was two.
Don’t know why, I love it now.
But then, my little body, so busy
growing into me
had other things to do.
Like the night I ran through the house
at three a.m. turning on lights
and the TV too,
then stood in my parents’ doorway
with hands on hips and declared
very loudly
“I need someone to play with!”
–Candace
Observer
I disagree with the experts
who say we arrive in this world
a blank slate.
It’s the opposite, really.
My father offers proof.
On my birthday, he pulls out the same memory
from a drawer full of memories.
Recounts that in those first moments of life
I didn’t cry.
Instead, my large-dark eyes
surveyed the room,
took notice of the him, my mother, the nurses.
I was born an observer.
A witness.
Writer in the making,
watching the world mid-spin.
–Amy
OVERTURE TO A LIFE
My father, a farmer at heart,
April 20th, 2008 at 5:48 amBut with a wandering foot,
Found work to support his young family
As an oilfield roughneck,
During the oil boom in Oklahoma.
The towns were filled with wealth seekers,
Rough men, tough men,
And there were few places to house a young family.
But my father found one,
A most modest room
In a large private dwelling.
Lucky to find anything.
My cradle was a drawer of a cheap dresser.
And neither I nor my naive, religious mother
Realized that the strange noises
Coming through the bedroom wall
Were commonplace
In a whorehouse.
Jerry, I love this! What a great story. Love the line, “Rough men, tough men,” and the ending.
April 22nd, 2008 at 4:22 pm